Valiant: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 3

by Clee, Adele

  Their curiosity aroused, all four men straightened.

  Mr Daventry frowned. “But I thought the man needed Golding’s sworn testimony as proof of your marriage?”

  “We gave him the sealed letter from Golding.” Mr Sloane’s sharp tone roused some confusion with his colleagues. He failed to mention they did not need to marry. “Apparently, the lawyer changed the plans.”

  “As an agent of the Order, one must adapt to changing circumstances.” Mr Daventry folded his newspaper and placed it on the low table between the sofas. “Such things rarely faze you, Sloane, yet your agitation is plain for all to see.”

  A deep-rooted need to defend Evan Sloane took command of Vivienne’s tongue. “Nothing about this is easy. A man might remain objective when helping a stranger. Not so when every new piece of information challenges his beliefs.”

  Knowing glances passed between the men.

  “Then let us focus on solving this case.” Mr Cole relaxed back on the sofa. “I can tell you that Mr Ramsey is engaged in an affair with the owner of the Old Red Crow.”

  Vivienne was not surprised. Mr Ramsey had made no secret of his love for her mother, though the feeling was not at all mutual. Mr Ramsey made no secret of his love for all women.

  “With Bonnie?” Evan asked.

  “Yes. He visits at least three times a week, has done for the last six months. Ramsey lavishes the woman with expensive gifts and has run up extensive debts in various shops around town, most notably perfumeries and chocolatiers.”

  Vivienne swallowed deeply. The news supported her theory that Mr Ramsey was a consummate deceiver. A cad.

  “Then perhaps there’s something else you should know about him.” A blush as hot as furnace coals warmed her cheeks. “In his usual tactile way, Mr Ramsey suggested I need a mature gentleman to take care of me, to provide the necessary comforts.”

  Evan Sloane muttered a vile curse.

  “He made similar advances to my mother.”

  Mr D’Angelo snorted his contempt. “These lecherous sorts take advantage of anyone they deem weak.”

  Vivienne agreed. “We might assume he learnt about the legacy from my father. That what he desires is to wed me and get his clammy hands on the treasure.”

  Mr D’Angelo consulted his small notebook. “Bonnie is a rampant sort. Mr Wicks visits almost daily and spends time in her private rooms.”

  “Or is he visiting Ramsey, and Bonnie is the facilitator?” Mr Sloane rubbed his sculpted jaw. The deep sound of his curious hum sent a shiver from her neck to her navel. “So Wicks purchases the masks, while Ramsey plays the intruder to frighten Miss Hart.”

  “Then who fired shots at your coach?” Vivienne asked.

  “It’s easy to hire a thug from the rookeries, though most are skilled with blades, not pistols. Hence the reason Turton escaped with nothing but a minor injury.”

  Mr D’Angelo flashed a confident grin. “You might be right. The owner of the tea shop in Long Lane said Wicks has been acting strangely since his mother died. He gave me the woman’s name, and I discovered she left her house to her brother, Mr Golding, not her wayward son.”

  No wonder the man had turned to the bottle.

  “Mr Ramsey must have followed me to the lawyer’s office,” she said. Or he might have noticed her when leaving the inn. “He formed a partnership with Mr Wicks so they might share the bounty.”

  “It certainly seems like a logical deduction,” Mr Daventry agreed. “Now, we must make plans to prove or disprove the theory.”

  The more she thought about it, the more she believed Mr Ramsey was a cunning devil capable of all kinds of atrocities.

  All they had to do now was set a trap to catch both men, solve the clues, find their legacy, and that would be the end of the case. Then she would be free to leave town, to start a new life in the far reaches of Scotland, far from the gentleman who had stolen her heart.

  So why did she feel sick to the pit of her stomach?

  Why did she have to fight back a barrage of tears?

  Chapter 15

  “I hate to be the one to upset the apple cart, but I have news that might point to another potential suspect.” Ashwood paused when Mrs Gunning entered with fresh coffee and a plate of macaroons.

  D’Angelo flashed the housekeeper a charming smile. “You know the way to a man’s heart, Mrs Gunning. There’s nothing like the sweet taste of almonds on one’s tongue.”

  Evan had tasted something far sweeter, something much more satisfying. Since waking this morning, he’d thought of nothing but pressing his mouth to Vivienne Hart’s soft skin. Then Howarth said marrying was pointless, and she seemed reluctant to continue their affair. And it was an affair. Nothing could change the fact they were lovers.

  Evan drew his mind back to their present dilemma. “Have you discovered something about Lady Hollinshead?” Ashwood had been tasked with making enquiries into the countess’ background.

  Vivienne was about to take a bite of her macaroon when she hesitated and placed the biscuit back on her china tea plate. “But the countess is a lady of high moral virtue.”

  “That may be,” Ashwood said, “but she is desperately unhappy in her marriage. I have it on good authority the earl has cut off her funds. She told him she has served her time and wishes to return to Scotland. He reminded her who rules the roost.”

  Vivienne’s shoulders sagged. “The earl treats her terribly. He blames her for not bearing his children, taunts her with his many mistresses. Thirty years is far too long to remain married to an ogre. My mother always hoped the countess would find the strength to leave.”

  “It seems she has opted for Boston, not Scotland. She sent her lady’s maid to purchase passage on The Maybury, leaving from Liverpool one week hence.”

  “Boston? Strange she made no mention of it.” Vivienne looked worried, not annoyed. “While her situation is terribly sad, what has it to do with the shots fired or the damaged painting?”

  “She pawned a brooch and a necklace to pay for the tickets,” Ashwood replied. “How will she fund a lavish lifestyle across the water? Being a good friend of your mother, maybe she knows about the contract, knows Sloane and Hart hid treasure, and you’re close to finding a fortune.”

  A shiver ran the length of Evan’s spine, though it had nothing to do with the fact the countess might be a cunning thief. “You said tickets. She’s not going alone?”

  “I believe she’s taking her maid.”

  Vivienne snorted. “I doubt she’ll get far. Lord Hollinshead has spies everywhere. The countess told me so herself. And if she’s leaving next week, how does she mean to steal our legacy?”

  “That’s something we need to discover.” Daventry turned his attention to the painting propped against the wall. “Sloane, focus on following the clues and discovering your grandfather’s intention. We will continue to pry into all the suspects’ affairs. We will meet here daily until the matter is resolved.”

  D’Angelo hummed and narrowed his gaze. “So, if you have your wedding gifts, must you still marry? And if not, is it wise for Miss Hart to remain at Keel Hall? Surely the longer she is there, the greater the risk of discovery.”

  The devil. Trust D’Angelo to focus on the one point certain to cause distress. And based on Vivienne’s flush of embarrassment, the reason Evan wanted her at Keel Hall was evident.

  “There is more to this than finding treasure,” Evan countered. “Our lives are in danger. And we’ve the matter of a vow, a contract.” And the host of unfamiliar feelings plaguing his mind and body. “We will do as Daventry said, follow the clues and see where they lead us.”

  D’Angelo’s teasing grin said he had the full measure of the situation. “Then are we permitted to see what’s behind the basket of fruit?”

  Daventry pushed to his feet. “I think it prudent they examine the painting privately. Someone may have followed them here. Should the fiend catch a glimpse of a map, he may attack their carriage on the quiet road through Little
Chelsea.”

  “Perhaps one of us should follow behind,” Cole suggested. “Ensure they arrive safely.”

  “Agreed. D’Angelo will go.” Daventry bowed over Miss Hart’s hand when she stood. “Report here tomorrow with any new developments.” Then he bid the men good day and took his leave.

  D’Angelo stole a macaroon off the plate and popped it into his mouth before helping Evan carry the painting to the carriage while Ashwood engaged Vivienne in conversation.

  “Tell Turton to drive like the devil. I have an appointment in town in an hour and cannot be late.” D’Angelo pushed the painting between the seats and brushed dust off his coat and hands.

  “An appointment? You should have told Daventry to send someone else.”

  D’Angelo glanced quickly behind. “Then I would have to tell him I’m conducting a personal investigation.”

  A personal investigation!

  Evan knew what that meant. D’Angelo lived to avenge the death of his parents. If his meeting involved romping beneath the bedsheets with a buxom widow, the fellow would have a lascivious glint in his eye.

  “Tell me you’re not risking your neck, scouring the rookeries on a hunch. Wait until I’ve dealt with this matter and I shall accompany you on your crusade.”

  “Sloane, I’ll not have you gamble with your life. Any fool can see what’s happening between you and Miss Hart. It’s only a matter of time before I’m left alone again. The orphan. The bachelor. It matters not.”

  Bitterness filled D’Angelo’s heart.

  The poison tainted his mind, tormented his soul.

  “We’re like brothers, D’Angelo. The bond we share cannot be broken. My relationship with Miss Hart changes nothing between us. Promise you’ll wait until I can assist you.”

  D’Angelo gripped Evan’s shoulder in a masculine gesture of affection. “I’ll not drag you into this when your heart is engaged, when you have the prospect of a bright future. Not when you’ve spent all these years alone, too. But I swore an oath. An oath to find the devil who shot my parents. An oath to find the bastard who murdered an unarmed woman in front of her young son.”

  He wiped his face as if it were still smeared with his mother’s blood.

  D’Angelo wore his pain like a second skin—hidden beneath the expert cut of his clothes, beneath his masculine charm and devil-may-care attitude. To the trained eye, it was there in every sleek movement, every mocking grin.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No. Not when I plan to fight with every breath in my lungs. Not when I’m determined to fight to the death.”

  * * *

  Evan sat before the fire in the drawing room, waiting for Vivienne to fetch the fan given as a wedding gift by a grandfather who’d died years ago, for a marriage that hadn’t taken place.

  The thrill of anticipation was marred by the fact he couldn’t shake D’Angelo’s comment from his mind. Few men had the strength to die for a cause. Few men had witnessed such a tragedy and managed to remain sane.

  Vivienne returned, dressed in the simple blue gown she had worn to dinner, when they had talked about everyone and everything aside from what had occurred last night. Wasn’t he supposed to forget he’d made love to a woman he cared about?

  “I brought the book of Thomas Gray’s poems.” Clutching the book to her chest, she sat in the chair beside him. “We might stumble upon a connection once we decipher the clues.”

  “Golding mentioned the poet for a reason.” Evan gestured to the two glasses on the side table positioned between the chairs. “I had Carter mix your drink. If it’s too strong, I can pour you a glass of sherry.”

  She smiled, though it failed to reach her eyes. She’d been subdued since Howarth made his damning declaration. “The last one scorched my tonsils.”

  “You mentioned trying a whipkull—the nectar of a Viking warrior. Is it not a better way to drink rum?”

  “You remembered.”

  “How could I forget?” Strange how he remembered nothing of his previous romantic encounters, yet recalled every precise detail of the time spent with her.

  Any fool can see what is happening between you and Miss Hart.

  Well, he was glad D’Angelo could, as he hadn’t a damn clue.

  She captured a glass and sipped the creamy liquid. “Hmm. It’s extremely sweet. So sweet, I can hardly taste the rum. To a novice, I daresay it could be quite lethal.”

  “You mean I might need to carry you to bed.”

  She stole a glance at him but looked away. His gaze never left her.

  “Perhaps we should play a game while I have an advantage,” he said, for he could not forget the feel of her soft, pliant body, could not forget she aroused his mind as much as his manhood.

  “Have we not got a more important task to attend to?”

  “What’s more important than lovers bearing their souls?”

  She rolled her eyes but did not contradict him. “At least you’re honest. It seems we were destined to be lovers, never man and wife.”

  “When it comes to relationships, honesty is the jewel in the crown.” He decided to avoid the topic of marriage. She was right. They did not have time to argue or wallow in regrets. “The gem that leaves most people gawping in awe.”

  “You mean too many lovers keep secrets.”

  “Too many lie and deceive.”

  She looked at the small leather-bound book in her lap. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask me anything.”

  Her gaze drifted from the book to him, though it took a moment for her to find the courage to speak. “What did you say to Mrs Worthing during those fifteen minutes you were alone at the masquerade? Did you dance? Did you—”

  The questions shocked him. “I didn’t see Mrs Worthing, or dance with her, or do anything one might deem inappropriate. I used the time to speak to a few men I know—Lord Fox, Mr Trenton-Parker, amongst others.”

  Their eyes met. The flash of vulnerability said she cared.

  “I wanted them to see me alone, Vivienne. You made the mistake of lowering your mask when you spoke to Mrs Worthing.” He’d made the mistake of revealing too much. “Gossip spreads like wildfire. She’ll be the first to strike a flint and spark her own version of the tale. I didn’t want anyone presuming we had consummated our union. It would have been the obvious assumption had we danced.”

  “I would have clung to you like a love-sick fool.” A sweet chuckle escaped her. “Having spent too much time watching the proceedings, I lack experience in the dancing department, too.”

  She lacked nothing when it came to lovemaking.

  “And while I’m considered somewhat exceptional on the dance floor,” he said, “I’d have been a quivering wreck the second I took you in my arms.”

  The air thrummed with sexual tension.

  Was she remembering the moment he pushed deep into her body?

  Was she imagining him doing so again?

  She snapped open the old fan and waved it before her flushed cheeks. Yes, her mind was engaged with illicit visions. Perhaps they should see what lay behind the painted picture of fruit and then move to more pleasurable pursuits.

  “May I look at the vignettes on the fan?”

  Vivienne handed him the delicate object. “They’re scenes of love and courtship.”

  Evan studied the white-wigged figures dressed in clothes fashionable seventy years ago. One vignette showed the couple dancing. One showed them sitting beneath a tree, the gentleman reading while the lady listened. One showed the gentleman bowing over his lady’s hand, ignoring the scantily clad women bathing in the lake behind.

  “Interesting,” he said, for a harem of naked women could not tear him away from Vivienne Hart.

  “Perhaps you should get on your knees and examine the gift from your grandfather.”

  Evan thought to tease her. Livingston Sloane had sent him a sea nymph bursting with intelligence and passion. No other gift could compare. “I’ll get to that once I’ve disco
vered what lies behind the painting of fruit.”

  He stood, took the painting hanging in the space left by Livingston Sloane’s portrait, and placed it on the floor before the hearth.

  Vivienne came and knelt beside him. The nearness of her body made it hard to concentrate on the task, but he took his knife and set to work prising the stretcher bars away from the frame.

  “I thought there might be a label on the panel—the name of the artist.” She kept her hands clasped in her lap and watched intently. “But then your grandfather wouldn’t want you following a false trail.”

  “No, clearly it’s not important.” The wood groaned and creaked against Evan’s assault, but he freed the stretched canvas from the gilt frame, leaving the painted board of a fruit basket still in place.

  They both gasped when Evan turned the canvas around to reveal the same painting of Livingston Sloane that had hung to the left of the mantelpiece since he was a boy.

  “How odd,” she said, drawing his mind back to the moment she entered the bedchamber, and his world changed for the better. “It’s identical. The table, the window, the date, they’re all the same.”

  “Not entirely the same.” He pointed to the open book. “Now we know the name of the poem.”

  Vivienne squinted. “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. It’s a poem about death. How might a person be remembered? How some are forgotten while others live on in people’s memories?”

  “I’m not familiar with it.” He avoided anything morbid. “Ashwood will have an opinion. He’s fond of poetry, though usually of the more amorous sort.”

  Vivienne captured the book from the chair and flicked to the relevant page. She sat reading while Evan stared at the familiar image of his grandfather, looking for other unique differences. An obvious one made him jerk his head back.

  “The compass points northeast.” And there was something different about the landscape beyond the window. He tugged the bell pull and had Fitchett bring his best magnifying glass from the study. “You’ve not heard from Buchanan?” he asked when the butler returned.